The leather bit gag pressed deep between Kevin’s teeth, the damp leather of the hood clinging to his face as James’ gloved fingers traced the outline of his jaw. The sleepsack compressed his body like a second skin, every breath a deliberate effort, every twitch of his caged cock a reminder of how thoroughly he was owned. James exhaled slowly, the sound thick with satisfaction, his thumb brushing over the lump where Kevin’s locked cage held is cock in a tight unyielding embrace. "You already are," he had murmured, and the words had settled into Kevin’s bones like a promise.
But this—this moment—wasn’t just about Kevin’s surrender. It was the culmination of something far more calculated.
Three months earlier.
The bar had been dim, the kind of place where the air smelled of whiskey and bad decisions. James had been nursing his drink, his leather jacket hugging his shoulders like a second skin, when he walked in. Tall, broad, with that messy brown hair and a smirk that suggested he knew exactly what he wanted—and exactly how to get it. Kevin. The way he moved, the way his eyes flicked over the crowd like he was searching for something—or someone—who could match his hunger.
James had watched. Always watching.
It was the way Kevin’s fingers had tightened around his glass when their gazes locked, just for a second, before he’d looked away, biting his lip. That little tell—the way his throat had worked as he swallowed, the way his posture had shifted, just slightly, like he was fighting the urge to lean in. James had seen it all. And he’d known.
Because he’d already been inside Kevin’s head for weeks.
The first time James had found him online, it had been almost too easy. A BDSM forum, buried deep in the kind of threads where men like Kevin—men who needed—went to confess their darkest cravings. Kevin’s username had been something ridiculous, something like LeatherPigInTraining, and his posts had been raw, unfiltered, desperate. "I want to be owned. Not just for a scene. Forever. I want to be molded into something that only exists to serve. I want leather fused to my skin. I want to be a fucking object."
James had read every word. Memorized them.
And then he’d replied.
Not as himself, of course. Just another anonymous Dom, another voice in the chorus of men promising to give Kevin what he craved. "You’d look good in a permanent hood, pig. Muzzled. Silent. Just a hole to fuck and fill." Kevin had responded within minutes, his messages growing more frantic, more detailed, as if he’d been starving for someone to listen. To understand.
James had let him talk. Let him spill every fantasy, every humiliation kink, every twisted little desire to be reduced to nothing more than a leather-wrapped cocksleeve. And with each confession, James had filed it away, building a profile so precise it was like holding a map to Kevin’s soul.
The stalking had started after that.
Not in a sloppy way—no lurking in alleys, no obvious follows. James was too meticulous for that. He’d learned Kevin’s routine. The gym he frequented, the coffee shop where he lingered too long over his laptop, the way he’d bite his lip when he thought no one was looking. The way his hands would tremble just slightly when he scrolled through his phone, no doubt reading more of those filthy forum threads, aching for someone to take him.
James had been there the night Kevin had finally snapped, typing out a post so raw it had made even the most jaded doms pause. "I don’t just want to be owned. I want to be broken. I want to be so far gone I don’t even remember what it’s like to have a choice. I want to be a fucking thing."
That was the night James had decided to stop watching.
And start planning.
The first step had been the bar. A test. See if Kevin would take the bait.
He had.
Oh, he’d played at resistance at first—flirty, teasing, like he wasn’t already half-hard from the way James had looked at him. But James had seen the way his pupils had blown when he’d leaned in, his voice low, his words filthy. "You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being on your knees for me. Being nothing but mine."
Kevin had swallowed. Nodded.
And just like that, the hook had been set.
The private room had been the next step. The cuffs. The blindfold. The way Kevin had melted when James had first called him pig, the way his cock had leaked at the sound of a zipper being pulled down.
James had known then that it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.
The sleepsack had been the final piece. The ultimate test. Because if Kevin could handle this—being sealed away, immobilized, reduced to nothing but a trembling, leaking mess of need—then he was ready for what came next.
And he had handled it.
Better than that—he’d craved it.
James’ fingers tightened around the straps of the bit gag, his cock thickening in his leather pants as he looked down at Kevin now. The sleepsack molded to every contour of his body, the leather hood damp with sweat and spit, the chastity cage straining under the tight leather encasement.
"You already are," he repeated, his voice a dark purr.
Because it was true.
Kevin had spent months begging the internet for a master who would take him apart. And James?
He’d been listening.
Now, he was going to give Kevin exactly what he’d asked for.
And by the time he was done, Kevin wouldn’t even remember a time when he hadn’t been his.
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